| Eight letters between old lovers
Werenít you the one who said we canít begin
If you leave, the lies lives on, unchallenged.
I work with them;
They bet on the fact that weíre all too damaged
And if you run to the country
(which is what?) and it cures
(which it canít), then
where would you be?
And whatís the bible for, Frankie? How can that help?
Late last night, I found myself
walking home through the park,
and, in the shadows
by the lake (which is as close as the city comes to dark),
I saw a couple making love.
It wasnít Eden, but it wasnít rape. It was a man
and a woman. And if thereís a god above,
doesnít he see this as an act of almost pure bravery,
People making shelter out of thin air.
What we made, Frankie, was the same.
And if thatís over -- if thatís gone up in some blinding light --
well, I need to stay here. In the city.
In the hollow of what used to be.
Because ... because what else do we have to build on?
And because, if I stay, at least I remain